


It's Just a Comfort Thing

by dierdele



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: I guess they call this hurt/comfort, I just wanted soft cuddles and dele pining for kisses, I wrote this drabble cause eric got injured again, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 19:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dierdele/pseuds/dierdele
Summary: 'Eric hums into every kiss, sometimes breathing Dele’s name and sometimes pausing to choke out some sentiment about how he wishes he could be going back to St George’s Park tomorrow, but Dele kisses his words away until there’s nothing left.'Or, Eric gets injured at the England match and Dele refuses to leave without him.





	It's Just a Comfort Thing

He’s supposed to go back to St George’s Park with the rest of the team. He knows that. He knows he will be in trouble for refusing, and yet, he does it anyway.

Gareth pulls him to one side by the coach in the underground car park beneath Wembley stadium. The engine is fired up and everyone is on board waiting to leave. The traffic is bad, and apparently the driver is itching to get going.

But Dele is refusing to get on.

“We have a match in three days, Dele,” Gareth says calmly, his tone measured. He’s wrapped up in his grey pea coat even though it’s warm outside and he’s looking at Dele the way a father looks at his disobedient teenager. Like he  _wants_  to be sympathetic but he also really just wants Dele to get on the bus.

“I’ll be back at St George’s Park tomorrow. I’ll set off in the morning.” Dele bites his lower lip and tries to look more assertive than he feels.

He’s never outright said no to Gareth before and he doesn’t know what the consequences will be. Will he be disciplined? Withdrawn from the squad? What if he’s made an example of? There’s been murmurs about players disobeying manages lately and Dele doesn’t know if his name is about to be added to that list. He really doesn’t know how  _any_  of this is going to play out.

All he knows is that he’s not leaving Eric alone tonight.

“I’m sure he has family and friends in London who can-”

“He doesn’t,” Dele interrupts as politely as possible. Next to them, the coach’s engine continues to rumble and the driver continues to look pissed off about the delay. Dele glances apologetically at him and then turns his gaze back to Gareth. “He won’t call them. He’ll just go home and he’ll pretend he’s fine but-” Dele cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to stay composed. “He isn’t,” he finishes quietly.

Because Eric isn’t okay. He’s had a bleak season strewn with illness, injury, and far too much self-doubt for Dele’s liking. He’d actually been surprised when he got the call up for England - which was heartbreaking in itself - but being at St George’s Park had given him a fresh start. He was happy again, smiling and joking around with Dele. He was back.  _They_  were back. Back in midfield, training together, playing together.

12 minutes. That’s how long Eric was given of their first game in the international break before he came stumbling to the ground, unable to continue with a muscle that refused to cooperate after a bad tackle. Three desperate attempts to run it off had only made things worse, and finally Eric had buried his face in his hands and accepted the inevitable: he was going off. His international break was over before it had barely even begun.

Eric has faced injuries before, of course, they all have. But this one feels different. This one feels like it’s well and truly broken him. Dele remembers the way Eric had gritted his teeth and forced a smile when trying to run it off. He remembers the way Eric had shaken his head at him, signalling he couldn’t carry on. And he remembers the way Eric had choked a sob into his hands before leaving the pitch for the last time.  

And that’s why Dele is refusing to get on the bus, because he knows Eric is going to go home tonight and stare blankly at his ceiling and tell himself he didn’t deserve his spot on the squad anyway. He’s going to tell himself he should have done better, should have had more awareness on the pitch. Dele has known Eric long enough to know Eric will blame himself before anyone else.

As if sensing Dele’s growing despair, Gareth exhales in defeat and nods. “Be back no later than 3pm.”

“I will,” Dele says, letting out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He smiles gratefully and Gareth pats his arm.

“Take care of him.”

***

Dele turns up at Eric’s North London apartment just after 11pm.

He hadn’t bothered texting Eric to let him know he was coming, and now that he’s standing at the security gate and peering into the gated cul-de-sac, he can’t see any lights on in Eric’s house. Eric has always left a lamp on in the conservatory out of habit for his dogs, which usually emits a soft glow just over the garden fence, but tonight there’s no glow. His house is void of any sign of life.

Maybe he called on a family member after all.

Dele taps in the security code regardless and waits for the gate to swing open, granting him access to Eric’s quiet cul-de-sac. Street lamps flicker softly above him, lighting the path that leads down to a handful of new-build homes. Eric’s is the furthest to the left, next to an open field where he likes to walk his dogs every morning.

Dele pads down the front garden and hesitates at the door. He’s almost certain Eric isn’t at home, but he has a key and figures he’s come all of this way now, so he might as well just stay.

He lets himself in without knocking and closes the door behind him.

Eric’s apartment is cold and quiet, but there’s a faint smell in the air of his aftershave and fabric conditioner and the figs he’s left out in the kitchen. It’s a familiar, welcoming smell that instantly makes Dele feel at ease.  

As he traces the steps around Eric’s kitchen, he picks a fig from the fruit bowl and pops it into his mouth. Everything is normal except there’s no light in the conservatory, no curious labs sniffing at Dele’s hands, and no Eric pleading with him to watch yet another episode of Game of Thrones.

_I came to check on u but ur not here. Im gonna stay over anyway. Call me in the morning x_

Dele sends the message and then flicks off the kitchen light, bathing the house in darkness again.

Accepting that he’s come all of this way for nothing, Dele resigns to just going to bed. He doesn’t bother turning any of the lights on because he’s been here enough times to be able to navigate his way through the darkness anyway.

He brushes his fingertips against the wall on his right and follows it to the bottom of the staircase.

Upstairs, the spare room is on the left, but Dele turns right, towards Eric’s room. It’s bigger, comfier. The bed will already be made up. Dele’s pyjama shorts might even still be crumpled under the bed from the last time he stayed over.

Dele keeps his fingers on the wall, following it around the corner at the top of the stairs. He passes the bathroom and then the airing cupboard until finally, on his right, he finds the door handle to Eric’s bedroom door and turns it.

Inside, Dele quietly creeps towards where he knows the bed to be and sits down on the edge, dropping his bag down on the floor next to him. He rubs his face tiredly and presses his fingertips into his eyes, creating a sea of stars that swarm his vision for a moment.

He checks his phone but Eric hasn’t read the message yet. He chews the inside of his mouth and sends a follow up.

_R u with ur sister? I hope ur ok. weird being here without u and the dogs._

With a sigh, he chucks his phone onto the bedside table, falls back onto the bed, and almost screams when he lands on a body.

Eric wakes up startled and quickly turns on the light, blinding them both in the process. Dele looks at him, mortified, and his mouth hangs open while he tries to form an explanation in his head..

“Eric!” Dele splutters, his brain still unhelpfully stumbling over the key components of this explanation. “I came to see you. To check… to check on you. Hi.”

Eric stares at him, sleepy and confused and a little shell-shocked. After a few seconds have passed, he seems to absorb what Dele is trying to tell him.

“Okay,” he croaks, nodding.

“Are you okay?” Dele asks, although the question feels somewhat redundant. Eric isn’t okay. He was asleep and Dele has basically broken into his house in order to wake him up and ask him how he’s feeling about getting injured today. He actually feels like a bit of a dick, now. “Sorry,” he adds quietly, just before Eric can reply. “I can go if you want?”

Eric blinks and opens his mouth a few times, until eventually he rubs his eyes and asks, “How did you get here?”

“Taxi.” Dele smiles sheepishly. “I know your code and I… still have your key.”

Dele doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he smoothes out Eric’s duvet to busy himself. He feels like a bit of a idiot, just stumbling into Eric’s room and throwing himself down on his  _already injured_  best friend.

“Shouldn’t you be on the bus to-”

“I didn’t want you to be on your own,” Dele says, shrugging. “Told Gareth I’ll be there by 3pm tomorrow.”

Eric takes a moment to process this information. Maybe it’s because he’s tired, but something changes in the way he’s looking at Dele. Something softens. The confusion that had clouded his expression has faded away and now he’s lifting the corner of his mouth into a small smile.

“Thanks for coming over, Del.”

Dele shoots him a tiny nod and pats the duvet for lack of anything better to do. “Sorry I woke you up, though.”

“It’s okay.”

“Can I get in?” Dele asks quietly, hopefully. He doesn’t want to stay in the spare room because it’s cold and empty and smells like new furniture.

Eric hums in confirmation and Dele slips off his shoes, peels off his socks and joggers until he’s reduced himself to just boxers and his black t-shirt. He feels around under Eric’s bed until he finds the crumpled pyjama shorts.

Eric watches him silently from his side of the bed and Dele can feel his eyes on him the whole time he’s undressing.

“Ready?” Eric asks when Dele pulls back the corner of the duvet. Dele nods and Eric turns out the light, sending the room into total darkness.

They lie in amiable silence while Dele settles into the little space he’s been allocated in the bed. Eric, the big lumbering idiot, is taking up at least three quarters of the room and doesn’t seem to consider this an issue. Dele has to nudge Eric’s knee out of the way to prompt him into shuffling over a little.

Eric turns inwards to face Dele and Dele does the same, stuffing one hand beneath his pillow and lying on it. He can’t see Eric in the darkness, but he can feel his breath tickling his face and figures he’s maybe 5-10 inches away.

“How are you feeling?” Dele asks into the small space between them.

“About what?” Eric replies. He sounds quiet, already sleepy. Dele reaches out until he finds the side of Eric’s face. Eric flinches a little at the unexpected contact but Dele soothes him by bringing his hand to the top of Eric’s head and affectionately rubbing the buzz cut.

“About everything,” Dele says.

Eric exhales all the air he has left in him and it makes Dele’s heart hurt.

“I’m here if you want to talk about it.” Dele continues rubbing Eric’s head but slows the motion, now bringing all of his fingertips into Eric’s hair. “And I’m still here even if you don’t.”

Eric reaches up and grabs Dele’s hand, clutching it in his own and bringing it to his chest. He leans his head down until his mouth brushes the skin on Dele’s fingers.

“I suppose it’s about time you had a bad season,” Dele continues. He tries to keep his tone light-hearted, but for some reason his heart just started thumping against his ribcage and now his hand is twitching in Eric’s grasp. “You went so long with no injuries, just always getting by, digging me out. Never had a break, did you?”

Eric inhales one shaky breath after another.

“About time you had a bad season, I reckon. Still annoying though isn’t it, because you already scored a goal. Already dug me out of some sticky situations. Already clattered Ramos.”

Eric smiles at the memory and Dele feels his mouth curl against his fingers.

“Not really that bad of a season, Diet. Just some illnesses to tick off the list. You’ve already had chicken pox, right?”

Eric hums.

“Alright, good. Just watch out for food poisoning then. And don’t go skydiving.”

“12 minutes…” Eric begins, but he cuts himself off and swallows thickly.

“I know,” Dele replies softly. He lifts his fingers out of Eric’s grasp until they touch Eric’s chin. Slowly, carefully, and with nerves shooting through his chest like electricity, he brushes his hand along Eric’s jaw, eventually cupping the side of his face with his thumb stroking Eric’s cheek.

Eric leans into the touch and Dele’s nerves momentarily melt away.  _This is Eric_ , he tells himself,  _this is us_.

He’s got this next bit of speech prepared in his head. He wants to tell Eric that half the team were out, that it wasn’t just Eric. He made it further than John and Jesse and Marcus and Winksy, right? So that’s something. And he started too, so nobody has lost faith.  _Nobody has lost faith in you._

Dele’s saying all of this in his head but nothing materialises, and maybe it’s because he’s exhausted or maybe it’s because Eric keeps leaning into his touch, turning his head just enough that Dele can bring his fingers to Eric’s mouth without much effort at all. And he does. He traces the shape of Eric’s lower lip with his thumb and wonders if it’s possible for your heart to beat so chaotically that it explodes.

The gap between them seems to get smaller. Dele doesn’t know if it’s him or Eric that moves in, or at what point he’s placed his hand on the back of Eric’s neck, but then there’s no gap at all. There’s just Eric’s mouth, and his mouth, and Eric’s breathing is hitched and Dele can feel it ghosting over his lips.

_It’s just a comfort thing_ , Dele tells himself. They do this sometimes, when the lights are out and there’s nobody to say anything ever happened. When they can kid themselves that really,  _nothing happened_. It’s just a comfort thing. They cuddle, hold hands, and sometimes Dele presses his mouth against Eric’s for a moment. It’s just a comfort thing.

This time, it’s Eric who erases the one inch left between them. He kisses Dele’s lower lip, as if asking for permission before continuing. Like he isn’t sure if Dele wants to do this tonight, to offer the comfort that Eric is clearly craving.

Dele responds by pulling Eric back in. He moves their lips together and kisses him softly, once, twice, three times. He keeps kissing him until he loses count.  _For every time you’ve helped me, saved me, defended me._

Eric rolls Dele on top of him and Dele moves fluidly, already arching his back to push himself closer to Eric. He opens his mouth when Eric licks at his lips and remembers the first time they did this, back when Dele had to withdraw from the England squad in November 2017. It was right after they beat Real Madrid. Dele had never experienced coming down from a high that fast. He’d been miserable and outright to horrible to anyone that tried to talk to him. So Eric had stopped trying to talk and instead replaced his soothing words with nervous, apprehensive kisses.

But it’s just a comfort thing. This is instead of finding the right words. This is a distraction from injury or from illness or from a bad loss. Sometimes it’s a celebration of a great win. Sometimes they don’t even bother making up an excuse.

Dele is on top of Eric, leaning down and licking into Eric’s mouth. He’s lapping up the familiar taste of Eric’s toothpaste, craving more of the warmth that Eric’s mouth offers him. Eric hums into every kiss, sometimes breathing Dele’s name and sometimes pausing to choke out some sentiment about how he wishes he could be going back to St George’s Park tomorrow.  

Dele kisses his words away until there’s nothing left.

“We have more games, more seasons, more competitions,” Dele says, smiling against Eric’s mouth until Eric smiles back at him. “This isn’t the end. It’s not even close.”

Eric tugs one more time on the back of Dele’s t-shirt and Dele smirks at him and pulls it up and over his head, tossing it across the room in the vague direction of Eric’s desk.

It’s all just to make Eric feel better, of course. That’s all this is - a comfort thing. It’s been going on for two years now but it’s just a way to escape the frustrations of injury. It’s just how they say  _I love you_  and  _I’m here_  and  _I wish this wasn’t happening to you_. And it works, because Eric keeps idly smiling against Dele’s neck, he stops talking about Montenegro, and he sleeps through the rest of the night with his arm wrapped around Dele’s waist.

And Dele figures that that alone is worth whatever repercussions await him tomorrow.


End file.
